inbox.

[heirring]

[action + written + crystal]

Comments

[bouchonne]

It -

[ There's the faintest hint of color that rises in his sallow cheek. ]

Maker, Miss Poppell, it was intended to be a Satinalia gift.

[heirring]

[—catches her visibly short. Lying there under the plain infirmary bed clothes, she doesn't start but the fixed upset in her pale sickly drawn face goes briefly remote before descending into outright confusion.

A bevy of questions, none more than half formed, eventually becomes:]

What?

[bouchonne]

It -

[ The color deepens. He turns back, and - there, there it is, the fucking thing, half-buried under a scarf someone has left. He picks it up and shows it. It's a very small volume, but rather thick, and when he shows it - ]

The spine is too stiff.

[ He flips it open and shows that, indeed, it's a book with an extremely tight spine. Tough to keep open to the page you want to read. Especially tough to keep open if you only have one hand to work with. ]

I was looking to - fix it somehow. Didn't think till it was too late.

[heirring]

[The reception of this shameful confession is merely being plunged further into bafflement. Distantly, Wysteria considers the possibility that her fever has returned. She blankly glances about the room as if the surroundings of the clinic might yield some answer. When that fails and her attention finally returns to Byerly and his flush face, she clearly has yet to find a satisfactory solution to the problem which lies at the heart of the man's failed subterfuge.]

But why had you brought me a Satinalia gift to begin with?

[bouchonne]

Because it's -

[ The color persists; it's the frown that deepens this time. ]

Because it's a tradition. Why would I not?

[heirring]

Because we are sworn enemies.

[—is not something she would say (certainly not in that bewildered, nonvenomous timbre) if she weren't still at least somewhat ill with fatigue.]

[bouchonne]

We're -

[ He gapes. ]

What?

[ Then - ]

Are you high?

[heirring]

[She gawks right back at him.]

Are you?

[bouchonne]

[ A touch defensively - ]

A little. Sworn enemies?

[heirring]

Well yes. [A beat of hesitation, and then as if she herself is legitimately unsure:] —Aren't we?

[bouchonne]

[ Without any uncertainty: ]

Absolutely not!

[heirring]

[His confidence clearly shocks her. Without much (any) prior calculation, Wysteria blurts:]

Then what exactly do you propose as an alternative?

[bouchonne]

An alternative - An alternative to what?

[heirring]

To—to our considerable history of acrimony, of course.

[Obviously. Then, considerably more to the point:]

You dislike me.

[bouchonne]

Only when you're being unpleasant to me. When you're not trying to find some victory or whatever it is you're after, I like you just fine.

[ He crosses his arms. Then the gesture reminds him of her predicament; he unfolds them, and adds, more subdued: ]

I apologize if I've ever given you that impression.

[heirring]

That's a lie. There is nothing at all about me which should recommend me to you. Which is perfectly well and entirely your prerogative. [And just as quickly, croaked back from the depths of her little bed.] Your apology is accepted.

[bouchonne]

Nothing that should recommend you to me?

[ His brows draw together fiercely as he tries to comprehend what she's saying. The statement sounded like a bit of self-disparagement, but that doesn't seem possible, given the source - He's never heard her say an unkind word about herself, particularly not when there's a barb to be delivered instead. ]

What do you mean by that?

[ A foolish question to follow up with, he supposes; that'll likely invite the barb. What I mean is that you are too simple-minded and cruel to find anything to like in me, is what he wagers will come next. ]

[heirring]

[There, a flicker of further bafflement and a brief instant in which Wysteria searches his expression. The meaning is obvious; why pretend otherwise?]

There is nothing about me which appeals to you. [Is the same as what she has just said, so she shakes herself and attempts a further revision.] My character is offensive to you, Mister Rutyer.

[bouchonne]

[ Which is a cousin to what he was expecting her to say, but a kinder cousin. And - ]

That's complete rubbish, Miss Poppell. There's much about you that I do find frustrating, but parts of you are frustrating is a far cry from there is nothing appealing. There are elements of the Lady Alexandrie I find frustrating as well, but I clearly also find her appealing.

[heirring]

[Lying there in the bed, the slightly put off expression that Wysteria pulls must be involuntary.]

Well yes, but Lady Asgard is lovely. Anyone would say so. —My point is we are not friends and you don't wish to be. You've never gotten me a Satinalia present before. Not a proper one.

[That silly little portrait of the Empress last year, living now at the bottom of one of her trunks doesn't count.

(This would all be a more effective indictment if she weren't croaking it all out, pale and kitten weak. But at least the natural impulse to harangue persists. Surely that is good news.)]

[bouchonne]

[ His lips thin. ]

Apologies, Miss Poppell. If I'd known that proper gifts were the only way to be affectionate towards a person, I'd have endeavored to be rather less impoverished.

[heirring]

[The blank looks she gives him speaks volumes. That's not the point, Byerly.]

What do you mean by coming here?

[bouchonne]

[ His shrug is sharp. Her words have wounded him, so his voice is clipped, but he swallows down the instinctual bristle. Silences the inner idiot who always feels so defensive beside people like her. ]

I like you, Miss Poppell; I always have. I wished to give you something that I hoped would spark some pleasure in your heart during a difficult time, and in commemoration of the holiday.

[heirring]

[In any other circumstance, something in her would snap abruptly shut as if I like you, Miss Poppell were the spring on some trap. Crack! Every impulse associated with the thing shut away where it might stifle itself, leaving only the exposed nerve of boiling frustration behind in the open air.

(Nastiness, you see, is habit and shield in equal measure.)

But she is tired and unprepared and Ellis has gone away and Mister Stark can hardly bear to speak to her and de Foncé is de Foncé and it will be quite some time before she sees Mister Dickerson and doesn't think at least a little of him carving off a piece of her and she doesn't want Byerly Rutyer to say 'I like you, Miss Poppell; I always have,' because either it's a lie which is dreadful or she is wrong and that is obviously twice as terrible.]

Oh. Well that's fine then, [she says very strictly indeed, and then bursts into tears.]

[bouchonne]

[ That's -

Oh.

There are certain emotional outbursts that Byerly is quite practiced with. How could you, you scoundrel, followed by a ringing slap - absolutely; he has the instincts. I'm passionately in love with you, a few times, yes, and he knows how to navigate it. Or even weeping, as long as the tears are false, he's skilled with. But here, now, there is no sign of guile that he can see - because he can imagine exactly what it would be like if Wysteria were fake-crying; she'd be sneaking glances constantly to see her effect on his temperament, and would probably be screwing up her face in a very fake way, and - It wouldn't look like this.

So he stands helplessly for a moment. But then he does the only thing he can think of to do. The thing he'd do for his sister, once upon a time, when she was overwhelmed with fury and frustration over the rags that fell apart under her needle and thread, or when she was ashamed over the bug-bites that ran up and down her arms, or when hunger turned from a pang to agony.

He moves to Wysteria's side, and sits beside her on the bed. And he places a hand cautiously on her shoulder - ready to pull it away if she flinches - and he rubs her back, gently, carefully. And he offers her a handkerchief. ]